Sins and Tragedies
by TurtlesAndCanada
Summary: Matthew's life is hectic, but predictable. He deals with his pyromaniac, loving, insane provinces, does his best to seam the rim between himself and his brother, attempts to keep the world out, and is desperately trying to stow away his secrets. But when Gilbert tries to heal Matthew's heart as well as his own, Matthew is left with a question; Is his life one of sins or tragedies?
1. Epiphiny

**Um... first real fanfic. Like multi chapter one. This is possibly going to fail horribly, but I have faith in the fact that I have eaten a bunch of fruit and fruit gives me strength. **

**Enjoy.**

**XXX**

I sit stiffly, barely breathing, doing my best to not crumble and scream. The pain is agonizing; it thrums through my veins, just as thick and prevalent as the blood that has been spilt so carelessly throughout the land.

My land.

My hand rests lightly on the brow of the boy in front of me. He sleeps peacefully and his breathing is strong and deep. The steady rhythm of his breath is the only thing that makes me willing to subject myself to such agony. While I suffer, he may rest and his body can heal itself. I love this boy as one may love their own child. Possibly more. Not all parents were willing to bear the complete burden of their children, but then again, how many children were willing to bear the pain of their elders?

It was wasted, obviously, since as I sat at Manitoba's bedside, I was taking the brunt of his pain, while he only had a mild discomfort. Nevertheless, the thought warmed my heart and I felt a sudden rush of affection for my province. I started to reluctantly stroke his forehead. I winced as the pain intensified, but I only continued to brush my fingers softly against him, now tracing the slight curve of his jaw. The more I touched him, the less he felt. The easiest way to describe the process would be me simply 'absorbing' the pain. Provinces could take attacks that were placed upon their land instead of the country themselves. I always expressed my thoughts on this to them; that it was wrong. I told them all - Ontario, Alberta, Quebec, Yukon, all of them - that the pain was mine, not theirs. I made a distinct point to never take an attack for me. Ever. Nations can be cruel and they don't care for the suffering of the enemy; if anything, just how much pain they could dish out without being considered as lost a case as Russia. And yet, despite my efforts, one of my children lay before me, in a coma.

His eyes flutter and I stop, waiting with baited breath to see if my young soldier will wake up.

But nothing. He merely shifts slightly, leaning into my hand and I hold back a hiss at the white hot flash that courses through me. My first instinct is to withdraw my hand and let Manitoba feel the consequences of not heeding my warnings, but he sighs and seems much more content. I can handle the pain. For three days, I've handled it just fine. The only thing that could possibly move me from this spot was the threat of dissolution or the chance to sick Kumajawa on those German bastards.

The heartless deviants had decided not only to invade my country, but also to use lethal tear gas on my soldiers. The Battle of Somme had left me with new scars, Manitoba has had his first taste of war, and I want to cry. My people are being killed and blinded, while they plunder and rejoice their victory, and nothing else has ever filled me with such loathing or rage. Except maybe for when America burnt York, but that hadn't affected any of my provinces.

I didn't want to be part of this fucking war. This ugly, terrible, deadly war. The Great War, or what others call it, World War One. They say is like there will be several. I'd pray not, but if prayers were worth anything, wouldn't the child in front of me be safe, alive, and healthy? That's what he is. A child.

Technically, I'm still British. My provinces, territories, and I were forced into a war while America and his states remain neutral. My blood freezes when I think of how England takes; that's all he does, and all I do is give and fight. My men, my money, my supplies, he takes them and doesn't spare me a wayward glance. Quebec and Ontario hate him, and I can see my other children are slowly turning against him too. Sometimes, I want to fight England, but then I see how the Netherlands or the Ukraine look at me, like I'm some kind of savoir, and I can't. Through the blood and scars I have also gotten glory, no matter how little. I only hope people will recognize my children and give them glory, when we defeat the Germans.

Because the Germans will lose this war. And so much more. I knew that for sure. My wrath wouldn't - no, couldn't be avoided.

I know they will fall eventually. But I hope (really, I'm much to old to be hoping anymore) that eventually was sooner than later. I almost pity Germany and Prussia in their ignorance. They thought they could win. It was literally the Axis against the world.

They saw England as a crumbling empire; a skeleton soon to break. Yet my former caretaker rose from the ashes, ready to fight with steel lining his heart along with his blade.

France always appeared weak but only those closest to him knew that that was just a ruse to fool those dumb enough to fall for it. He's coy and playful, but while you laugh at him, he stabs a dagger through your back. I like to think I get my slyness from him.

America was a paradox. Booming and loud, but many assumed that he was more bark than bite. It was humorous to think how they blanched when Al declared war with an unholy glint in his sky blues. He'd die for his people, something that turned him into a time bomb of sorts, and nothing enraged him more than their deaths, lawful or otherwise.

Russia is mad. Who could deny such claims? It was foolish, not tactful to wish he would stay out of the war. Besides, how could Ivan ever pass up the chance to use that lead pipe of his?

I was a little confused when it came to China. He was much to old, much to wise, for me to ever dream of reading him. Someone as ancient as he, I regarded cautiously. But he remains strong, and though I don't agree with all of his ideals, I look to him when I want to know how the build a lasting country. I refuse to fall, and if anyone knows how to stand its the Immortal himself.

I don't think anyone ever thought of me. But that's fine. Scotland (the uncle who often took care of me when Arthur forgot) tells me that I'm the most dangerous kind of killer. The kind you don't see coming. I like to think my cruelness is kept to a minimum, but with soldiers known as 'shock troops' because of how ferocious they are, and how just hearing their steady march can have any German shaking in their boots, I believe I am sometimes the topic of older Nations when they discuss who might turn out like Russia. I try to hope that not being bothered by the blood is just the side affect of being a nation, that nothing is wrong when I can still say red is my favorite color in the midst of war. That when I thrust my bayonet into another man's chest, I shiver in disgust, not pleasure. But even off the battlefield I always relish how Germany makes it a point to avoid me at meetings, while Prussia just glares and proclaims loudly that nothing scares him.

It's an almost dream; so close yet so far away. It's easy to read them, albeit I used to struggle with Germany. He was once so composed, but the blowback of being a ruthless killer makes him like an open book.

That's what I do. I read people. Judge them. Learn from mistakes that aren't mine. I'm invisible and somewhat invincible at the same time. No one be really talks to me much besides my provinces and Al. But he's a paradox. Sometimes he cares, other times he just wants someone to whine too, and at worst treats me like his 51st state.

We never talk about it, but it's an unspoken rule that none of the provinces are to stay in the same room as Al for long. Because with Al comes America, and it will be a bitter, cold, cold, day in Hell before I let any of my children be annexed. I'm not paranoid. The War of 1812 proved that long ago.

It's harsh but reasonable of me not to trust any other Nations. I was alone before my family, but now that I have them it didn't take long to realize I'd fight till my last breath to keep them.

Francis truly knew my displeasure only once, and that was when he gave Quebec silly (yet painful) ideas of independence. I occasionally get headaches from the Separatists.

My mind is clouded with disgust as I think of more and more reasons to not trust others. But that is all I can do. Think. I'm the invisible Nation. My job is to listen, jot down weaknesses in meetings instead of notes, not plan war but prepare and try to prevent it. In real life, I will smile politely at you and offer you my umbrella in the rain, but remember where you live, just in case. As far as I can tell, the only other person who uses these tactics are Switzerland, except he loathes to give out favors.

Just one thing I've 'noticed' about him.

My brother says that I need to stand up for myself with fists, but the lashing of words can leave scars where physical cannot. We are immortal. Pain will fade, but humiliation and emotions can linger and fester under the skin, where no one can see your torment but yourself. It is the ultimate feeling of being alone.

"Canada?" I am brought out of my passive-aggressive filled haze to see Manitoba, sitting up in his sterile white bed, now my hand clutched tightly in his. His hands are soft and not worn or calloused at all, despite his talent for a gun. Not as good as Switzerland or I, but he has impeccable aim. I'm always telling him how proud I am of him.

"Hey, Daniel," I say softly, using his human name. "You've been out for awhile. How you feeling, trooper?" My voice is quiet. It always is, but my provinces assure me that it is soothing to them, not annoying.

He is quiet and I can hear his breathing, still so steady. His eyes are closed, but I know if he opens them, they will be a deep brown, not quite wise, but understanding. His skin is as pale as mine. All of my children are pale, besides the territories who are dark as my sister, Seychelles. Manitoba's hair is black and curled slightly at the nape of his neck, where he'd been sweating. Alberta romantically refers to his hair color as 'raven silk' and I found myself agreeing.

For a moment I am lost on the beauty of my province, the beauty of all of my children, and a rush of love, hope, and relief washes over me. I reach out to cup a pale cheek, but when my hand is inches away, he opens his eyes and suddenly I am falling, crashing down so hard I can't breathe.

His eyes are no longer that soulful brown. Instead, they are white and opaque, not focused and looking through me. I can feel my heart beating inside my chest so hard it will jump out like Russia's (or is it even beating at all?) with a sense of _this-cannot-be-happening_. I try to tell myself its not what I think it is, that it's just a side affect from the tear gas, that all the pain I went through wasn't for nothing, that I wasn't too late -

"Matt, I can't see." And his voice is just as soft as mine, its a mixed blessing to me. To be able to hear him, but for Daniel to speak those words...

Ice freezes my blood completely and for a nanosecond I feel like the murderer all Nations once were. I can clearly imagine myself killing the Axis, not just the Germans, but Italians and Japanese too. I can hear them, screaming, the last question of "Who?" on their lips.

I am cold and I do not feel. I do not breathe.

"Matthew a-are you there? P-Please, talk to me, I-I can't see you!" His voice hitches and its starting to fill with hysteria and I reach forward and engulf him in my embrace, though I know that my skin is icy. I faintly recognize that the pain I feel is now emotional, and it is unbearable.

He lets out a shuddering sob, one after another, until I join him, and we are both crying silently, our bodies wracked with grief. Manitoba for his eyesight, and I for so many things being piled onto each other, the war, being forgotten, the pain of my child, the deaths of my people, being used so carelessly, being scarred, over and over again.

Between imaginary murders, tears, and madness I swear to myself that for every tear spilled, there will be Axis blood to pay for it. Your blood for our tears.

And that, is a promise because I truly am much too old for hope.

**XXX**

"Meeting adjourned!" Germany's voice echoes throughout the hall, and almost immediately Italy jumps him, yelling "Doitsu~ Let's get pasta!" in his overly-happy way. Other Nations snicker and wait for the charade to end, but I push my chair back, taking care not to scrape it against the floor. It's polite to wait for the hosting Nation to leave first, but Germany is obviously preoccupied and I'm uncomfortable in German territory. It's nothing bad, just a lingering caution from the war, but it bothers me nevertheless. I can slink away early since no one will see me or even seek me out after the meeting. Just a small benefit of being invisible.

The war is over, has been for years, and though my people are still awarded and praised for their bravery and valor, I, as a person, am overlooked. I don't mind as much as I use too. The less people see me, the less they bother me, and its really not healthy for anyone when I'm upset. I dream of war sometimes, but never just blood. Not anymore. And I'd prefer to keep it that way, thank you very much.

Germany and the rest of the Axis got off easy after the wars, but in return Prussia suffered. He stayed with Russia for forty years and my provinces and I find this according punishment for the loss of Manitoba's eyesight. In fact, he stands in front of me, joking with France and Spain. He doesn't quite look healthy, but the paleness is just from being an albino, most likely. The silver-haired man now wears gloves always, and I am smug to think only I and Germany are the only ones to know why.

Ironically, I was the one who took him away from Russia's home. I remember how he hung so limply on Kumacho's back; he almost looked dead, and though my heart didn't exactly bleed for him, I could never say I wished him more pain. I had strode into Russia's home and taken him. Ivan tried to fight, but he's always had a weakness for me. Two soft taps to the back of his neck and he was unconscious, lounging on the couch as if he had fallen asleep peacefully. The Allies and I all agreed that it was best I take him for two reasons; Ivan would not maim me as he might others, and it was a sort of closure. None of us had the blistering hate we once had, but only because we were reassured he got what was coming. True, it's cruel to think that way, but Daniel's blindness and the blood of our soldiers hardened our hearts like nothing else could.

Just as I was almost to the door, my phone rang, its quiet ringtone of the Canadian anthem making me flinch. Without thinking, I answered, not checking the collar I.D.

"PAPA!" A female voice shrieks in my ear, "MAKE THOMAS STOP!'" I look down in horror in hopes it's not who I think it is. My heart sinks. Quebec, my quick-tempered French province.

"Marcelle," I whisper, knowing without a doubt that she could hear me, "it's not the best time."

"BUT PAPA, THOMAS IS-"

"_Mon fils_, who is it you are on the phone with? Perhaps a lady friend?" Again, to my horror, I look to find Francis smirking perversely in front of me. Spain and Prussia are on the other side of the room, but look at us curiously. A quick glance around proves that many others are staring. So much for a quiet escape.

"Papa, it's only Quebec," I answer softly, knowing he won't hear me. And if he does, ignore me. A difference between him and my real family.

"Nonsense! I know the voice of my granddaughter, and that's the voice of a lady!"

"Papa? Is Grandfather there?" She begins to wail. "Oh, Grandfather! Please tell Papa to get these _imbeciles_ to shut up! They plague me with stories of murder, surely unfit for a young lady such as myself! You just said so!" Now the entire hall stares at us and I feel myself flush lightly.

"Marcy, please-" But I am cut off once again by Francis, as he snatches the phone and wails with her. "_Mon_ _lapin_! What have these heathens done to you? I tell Mattheiu so very often how you need to come spend time with your dear Grandfather! I assure you, _cher_, however you are being treated will change drastically in the _Country of L'Amour_!" I can barely hold myself back from snapping at my 'father' as he tries to entice Quebec into becoming one with France. But I am filled with pride at my girl's answer.

"Non, non! I am perfectly happy with Papa, he is wonderful at cooking and he's teaching me, why don't you come over for dinner sometime? Anyways, just tell Papa he must save me from these beasts of brothers! And my sisters, those traitors, just laugh! Sadists, the lot of them!" It's amusing to hear Marcelle rant; her French accent starts to thicken, but she gets as loud as America and uses the grammar of England.

"Hey! Stop telling Frannie a bunch of lies, we all know _you_ like it when children cry! And where's Matt? I thought you called him!" Ontario cut in, obviously annoyed. I groaned. I didn't want to have a family meeting over the phone in Germany, of all places.

"I did, you fool! But Grandfather's there too!" Thomas grunts and I hear them shift around as if scuffling.

"Calm _down_, wench, it was just a question. Hey Matt, are you at a meeting? Tell Alfred I need my snowboard back, I know he's just using it to pick up chicks when he comes to Canada. And that shit ain't cool."

"Do NOT call me a such repulsive names! I am a perfectly respectable lady and please tell that _Yankee brother_ of yours, Papa, that he needs to stay out of my province! I do not appreciate his crude French jokes, nor do I consider them as _flirting_." I turn an even brighter red and glare at my 'Yankee brother' who is now grinning sheepishly at me. Francis looks horrified.

"Do you hear that, England? Your son has been terrorizing my _petite_ granddaughter! I've told you again and again, put him on a leash!" It seemed that Arthur, too, had migrated over to the conversation. I could hear various snickers around the room, laughing at the foolish family moment.

"Don't you yell at me, you daft frog! Alfred is not my responsibility anymore, and you should know that, considering you helped the bloody git! And I'll have you know Marcelle is just as much my granddaughter as she is yours!"

"Dude, I'm not terrorizing her, and Iggy, are you seriously still hung up on that? Smell the burgers, it's over." Arthur sniffs and Al (God knows where he came from...) turns to me. "What's wrong with me visiting my niece? Nothing, you guys are just hating on me. Right, Mattie?" I give him an icy look and he steps back a little. He'd best stay away from Quebec.

"Actually," Quebec said in a clipped tone, "I don't think of myself as your granddaughter and certainly not that dunce's niece." England grimaces. Arthur and Quebec have never gotten along, despite my efforts. After France's performance in her province, I somehow managed to tame her hatred of English-Canadians but, unfortunately, it was redirected to the English in general. Surprisingly, England's rather good about remembering the province's birthdays, and he always tries to win over Marcy with some big present. However, this just makes the other provinces dislike him, even more so when he forgets my birthday.

I hate family politics.

"But Marcelle, I'm... Er... Um... Canada? Canada! Yes, I'm Canada's father, so that legally makes me your grandfather." Al and I both chuckle at England's desperate attempt to make peace with Marcy. It was well-known that since Arthur seemed to fail at being a brother and father, he overcompensates when it came to his 'grandchildren'. Namely, my provinces, since the states were horrible trouble makers that rampaged and rioted wherever they went. Al had no control over them whatsoever. I just tried to keep them out of my country. Except sometimes Alaska. She occasionally comes camping with us, and Erica is a very nice girl when she's not being hyper active crazy. Something all the states, in a twist of fate, inherited from Al.

"Technically, you kidnapped him when he was a child." Marcelle's voice is cold and for a moment I am slightly proud of how quick-witted she is. It's terrible when you're in an argument with her, but helpful when she's on your side.

"He used to call me father!"

"I have long forgiven Papa for any past lapses in judgement, no matter how _distasteful_," She snarls and there is a firm edge to her tone that makes me smug enough to take back my phone that was now in England's hands. I realize that at some point someone turned the phone on speaker and I switch it off with a dismissing wave of my hand to my so-called 'family'. Arthur and Francis grudgingly leave, one more so than the other, but Al lingers. I ignore him and address my now calmer daughter. "Marcy, what was the problem in the first place?"

"Thomas and Elliot were telling those horrid stories about the Maple Murderer." She has lost the edge to her voice and I sigh softly.

"They aren't just stories, Marcy, you know that." The Maple Murderer was a Canadian killer who roamed the battle field during WWII. He killed from high ranking officers to the lowest of soldiers, all brutal and almost animal like. The only defining trait of his was that he killed only Germans and that whoever he murdered would be left with a lone maple leaf on their body, hence the nickname. The Maple Murderer was the stuff of legends. Nobody could identify him, nobody could track him down as a deserter, and he left no evidence. He managed to sneak into enemy camps, disarm guards, kill officers and leave without a trace. German battle plans and information would be left on the desks of Canadian officers, all who couldn't say how it got there. He was somewhat of an angel to Canadian forces and a nighttime horror to Germans in the war.

"Yes, but it's strange to hear them talk about you like that." Yeah, it was me. Blood for tears. I only stopped when Prussia was sent to Russia's place and Germany was properly man handled and humiliated enough. That, and it was disgusting when I realized I had to wean Kumakura off of human flesh.

"Can you just bear with it until I get back? I don't know why they insist on reminding themselves of what a psychopath I was," I huff out. I'm aware that I'm a cruel man, but nothing stings like my own children chatting about it like it's nothing. Or even worse, using my tales of murder as bedtime stories. It's revolting yet flattering at the same time.

"See?" She whines, "That's why I hate when they bring it up. You say things about yourself that aren't true. I don't like it when you feel bad." I chuckle. I'm amazed at how they can continue to give me more and more reasons to love them. Marcy may be a bit bratty, but she has good intentions.

"Marcy, it's fine. But if it really bothers you that much, give the phone to Thomas." Al taps my shoulder. He looks impatient and give a 'hurry up' gesture with his hands. I flip him the bird and try to shoo him away. Surprisingly, he stands firm and looks over his glasses at me, his blue eyes glittering like hard stone. It wasn't often that Al actually wanted to have a conversation with me instead of just rambling while I nod my head, but I can see the signs.

'One minute' I mouth. He nods his head, eyes still hard, and I wonder who is standing in front of me so boldly. Alfred or America?

I want nothing to do with both. But since when do Nations get what they want?

"Hey Matt, am I really in trouble for telling those stories? 'Cause I swear, I'll stop if you want me too, but really, you were _cool as fuck_ back then, all ninja assassin and secret missions and shit. Not that you aren't cool now, 'cause you're a beast at hockey, and _oh God_, don't make me play hockey with you, pleasepleaseplease I still have the bruises from last time and _oh shit_ why aren't you talking, speak to me Matt, please tell me you aren't gonna kill me, I'll go over to Arthur's for dinner or spend the night with Frannie, but please don't kill me, I'll leave the wench alone-"

"Tommy," I finally say,"shut up before you start crying." Because he was starting to get hysterical over nothing and I don't need him balling when I get home. Taking another look at my Southern Twin, I remember I need to be quick. "Look, I'm not mad and we can talk when I get home. Until then tell Nunavut he's in charge - and don't give me that 'but' crap - and make sure no one kills anyone else. Especially Daniel. You know what? Just take his gun away until I get home. No, I don't care if he'll shoot you because he can't shoot you if you sneak up on him. Don't call Cassel a killjoy, he's just more mature than you, and just _do what I say Thomas_." I hear him swallow whatever down he was going to say and I smile. "Capiche?"

"Capiche."

Alright, I'll see you when I get home, later." I don't wait for an answer and snap the phone shut.

"You baby them too much."

"Fuck you, America." I turn to my twin and start to feel my skin cool. Whenever I'm upset, I get colder. My brother gets warm when he's mad. He's sneering and if we weren't in public, I'd wipe that snide look right off his face.

"Seriously, bro. You guys still live together? That's kind of pathetic. I mean it was chill when they were kids, but how old are they now? A century and a half at least? You guys are practically dependent on each other." He shakes his head in mock sadness and I know what's triggered his sudden douche attack. That's what I call them, when Al switches to America without warning. Douche attacks. It was Nunavut's idea, actually. I try not to snicker when I think of the term.

He narrows his eyes. "Something funny?"

"Just how ironic it is n' all." I laugh harder and there is a thin layer of frost where my hand clutches the post I lean upon. I am sure that if things continue the way are, Russia will have to carry me outside, something he's done on multiple occasions when the room starts to freeze. He's the only one who can stand the cold like I can.

"_Enlighten me_," America snaps. I open my eyes, wipe a tear that's now a tiny icicle and decide that America is the one who brings out the cruelty in me now, instead of Germans.

"Oh nothing," I breathe carelessly, "just how you've become like England. Maybe I'm crazy, but I could _swear_ you promised each state individually that you'd never neglect them. That you wouldn't let them drown in taxes. That they'd keep their rights, liberty, and be able to pursue happiness. You said and I quote "I will be your hero, not your downfall"." He grabs my collar and pulls me so close our noses are almost touching. I'm taller than him and I smile politely, smile _down_ at my brother, the superpower. Steam rises into the air from where the heat of his hand barely brushes my skin. I want to run. I want us to be like we use to be, where we could be countries and brothers at the same time. But I also want to laugh at him, watch him sink in his own ashes as he burns. But this time, I won't be the one burning him. I'll watch cheerfully as he burns himself to the ground, too proud to ask for help that I'd gladly give.

I can see that he wants us to be brothers again, but that's what Al wants. America wants power and money. America is greedy and only does things for himself and his people. America is fading.

One of my laughs comes out as a choked sob and I wonder when and how the Hell we got this way. The last time we were like this, we both burned; we have identical scars on our hearts to prove how poisonous our relationship can be. I open my mouth to tell him we can be better, that we don't have to repeat our mistakes, but instead I whisper in my super soft voice that he hates "Does any of that sound familiar, _bro_?"

He rears back as if I've slapped him, and in a way, I have. His fist pulls back and I feel like I should smile, bare my cheek before him. Last time I did that, he knocked a couple teeth out and cracked my skull. But I don't want my head opened up so I just glare back at him, defiant in my silence. I anticipate pain when America rushes forward.

Instead a thick cloud of steam appears over our heads as he wraps his arms around me, his tears evaporating as bright, blazing fire meets frigid, cool ice. Seconds pass as I wait for him to pull back and tell me it's a trick, but he doesn't. All he does is look me in the eye. I realize that Al hasn't just come back; this is America, weak and confused.

"_Shit_, Canada," He murmurs, "how the fuck did we get like this?"

"I don't know." We're silent for a little while until my knees buckle from the combined weight of my brother and surprise. We slide down against the wall and he leans his head down on my shoulder, still whispering apologies that don't make sense. We've never done this before. We get mad and make a big to do about nothing, fight, go home, and the next day one of us shows up at the other's door with a bag of chips the size of Arthur's eyebrows and a Hallmark movie. We don't cry or say sorry or ask questions the other can't answer.

"Are we still brothers?"

"Who?" I breath out. "Canada and America or Matt and Al?" I hope his answer will tell me who I'm talking to. America and Al could be so similar it was scary.

"I think I'd give up Lady Liberty for both." I laugh. I can't help it. All this and he still has it in him to bring up patriotism.

"I'd give up the Toronto Maple Leafs for both." He whistles.

"That's commitment."

"And giving up the Statue of Liberty isn't?"

"Smart-ass." He leaned back and slapped my arm playfully.

"I learnt from the best." He smirks.

"Aw. Flattery will get you nowhere," He says, but his cheeks are flushed.

I snicker. "I was referring to Francis, actually."

"Fuck you."

"I would, but last time was kind of disappointing." His eyes widen.

"You did NOT just bring that up." His cheeks are now red with embarrassment and I can tell I'm talking to Al. America is proud of everything he does; little things like embarrassment are for Al.

"Excuse me?" Germany is standing above us, cheeks stained a light pink. I realize that we're having a heart-to-heart in his government building and laugh aloud, but he can't hear me. Al can, and he chuckles with me, but louder. Hearing Al, he seems to get a little more confidence and straightens. "My apologies if I am intruding on a personal moment, but it's time to leave." He's right. Everyone else is long gone, except for Italy, Prussia, and Japan, who is discreetly taking pictures of us. I can't see his camera, but I've read him enough to know his basic reactions. Italy is happily explaining how to make pasta to Prussia, who continues to steal glances at us, not being half as sneaky as Japan.

I grunt. "Get off me, fatass." Al stands and pulls me up with him, still laughing.

"You riding with me, tree-hugger?" I glance at Germany, shocked and horrified.

"You let him drive in your country?" Germany looks confused and both my question and my talking to him. We haven't exchanged words for almost two decades.

"Ja, what's wrong with that?" I give him an exasperated look and frown.

"If you wish to avoid the impending doom of all your highways, I'd suggest calling him a cab. Neither of us can speak a lick of German." I can speak German fluently, being multilingual and all. Al knows this and looks like he's going to speak up, so I punch his arm and gesture to the blond giant looming over us. "Go with the man. I'll take your truck and get it back to you by Friday. I know you have a dozen more at home." He grins disarmingly and my skin is once again room temperature. Before Al and Germany leave the room, (Italy and Japan in tow) he turns back.

"We gonna have a 'feelings' talk later, aren't we?" He calls, his shit-eating grin on full force.

"I'll mail you my man-card." He cackles as he is led out of the room, and for the first time in a long time the last image I have of my brother is of him laughing crazily, cornflower eyes alight with happiness, hair mussed and sticking to his head.

I am filled with hope.

"Aren't you that kid that dragged me out of Russia' place?" And then I realize I'm alone in a room with Prussia, who has managed to ignore me for about thirty years.

Maple.

**XXX**

**Alrighty, first chapter complete! Second chapter?**

**Challenge accepted, like a BOSS. Ah, by the way, if anyone wants the details of what exactly happened during The War of 1812, I have a small fic to accompany this, Poison in the Fire.**


	2. Little Things

"W-what?" I laugh off nervously, look anywhere but at curious crimson eyes. There have been dozens of meetings since I lugged him out of Russia's place; why now, of all times?

"This kid, he took me away from Russia. It was you, right?" Prussia insists, walking closer. Just two feet away from me, he stops and his eyes narrow. "It was you." His voice is filled with absolute certainty and I pale. I had hoped the albino had forgotten our small, but interesting exchange.

I chuckle again, eyeing the floor. "Um... I d-don't quite recall. I'm sure you'll find w-whoever you're looking for, sorrygottagobye!" I squeak out, making a beeline for the door.

"Hey, kid, wait!" Noooooope. I rush out the door and realize that I one, have no idea where I am, and two, Prussia is chasing me. I randomly choose left, cursing that I didn't bring Kuma with me. He was back home, with Yukon, because I feared he might remember the smell of Germans and attack. Now I wish I had my murderous pet with me.

I cheer internally as I see the main door. I run towards it, my outstretched hand flying to the handle, so I could leave Germany and _never_ come back, when I feel a crushing weight on my back, and I fall forward, slamming my defenseless head on the door.

Prussia had fucking tackled me.

Houston, do you read me? Shall I repeat?

_Prussia fucking tackled me_.

For a moment I am lost on the advanced stupidity of my day, and close my eyes...

"Holy shit! Kid, are you alright? Fuck, I killed him, West is gonna kill me, Francis is gonna kill me, Jones' is gonna kill me, kid, are you dead? Gott. I messed up! Don't die, don't die! Fuck no, I'm too awesome to die!" I mumble.

"Ge offa e..."

"What? Fucking shit, did I give you a concussion? Mien Gott, speak to me kid!" I try to slurr him my message several times, but the ex-Nation was frantic, swearing in German and shaking my shoulders.

"Get off of me..."

"What? Get off of you..." Prussia's eyes widen and he scrambles to get off of me, swearing like a sailor the entire way. I close my eyes again and groan, positive I had some type of head injury. Quebec was going to be on the war path when I got home. She couldn't stand the idea of me getting hurt. Period. It was nice to be fawned over occasionally, but once she tried to declare war on Alfred after we had gotten too rowdy.

"Shit, kid, you're bleeding!" I feel a slight 'whoosh' and I stumble until I realize Prussia had pulled me up, and was now taking a... Chick band-aid out of his pocket?

He must have seen my questioning look, because he scratches his head sheepishly and elaborates. "Ita-chan is real clumsy, so whenever he cuts himself or trips or some shit..."

I lightly brush my fingers over my head until I reach a gash. It's small, but it's bleeding profusely, and I frown. I know head wounds are generally bloody, but at this point, its a large inconvenience. I'll get blood in Al's truck, I'm wearing a white dress shirt, it'll stain the nice wooden floor of the building if someone doesn't scrub it soon, my hair will clump together and it'll be a bitch to wash out, I'll have to get on my plane with a bleeding head if it doesn't scab soon...

"Kid." I look up from my mental list of why head wounds are bothersome to see Prussia awkwardly holding the band-aid out to me. I thank him softly and put it inside my pocket, instead opting to reach into my shirt pocket and taking out an embroidered handkerchief that Newfoundland had given to me a couple months back. I press it onto the wound, wincing slightly.

Prussia asks me something and I nod, not caring what the question was. I just want to leave. "Can I just...go now?" I know it's impolite but I can't bring myself to care. "I'm sorry for bleeding everywhere, but I really need to catch my plane, and I'm expectedly home soon..."

Prussia stares at me incredulously, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "...Did you just apologize for bleeding?" He asks dumbly. I nod and with my free hand wave goodbye as I go to open the door. He rushes past me and pulls it open for me, eyes to the ground. He mumbles something, cheeks a furious red, and I pause.

"Hm?" Gilbert continued to mumble incoherently for a few seconds. I let out and exasperated sigh. I was feeling the high from making up (kinda) with Al slowly fade away. "T-thank you, but really, I must be g-going..." I trail off.

"I'll help you!" He burst out, and I stare at him, baffled.

"You said earlier that you didn't know German, right? Do you need me to call you a cab or some shit?" Prussia smirks at me, seeming extremely proud of himself.

"N-no thank you... I'm driving my b-brother's truck." The look Prussia gives me is that of a kicked puppy, and if I weren't so used to Ontario giving me such looks daily, I might have felt guilty or even take him up on his offer. But instead, I nodded my head politely at him and walk past, ignoring his dejected expression. There was no reason for me to feel bad; I don't know him, and honestly I don't think I want too. He reminds me too much of Al in these measly five minutes, and I'm barely getting along with one of them.

"Are you gonna be at the next meeting?" I glance back at him, now getting annoyed. I have a private jet and it will wait for me if I'm late, but I really don't like cutting corners.

"Yes." He beams.

"So you're a Nation?" I swallow roughly and I'm tempted to tell him no, because I've been asked that question one time too many. There's a difference between wanting people to give you space and wanting to be ignored completely; I don't mind being invisible but I do, however, want to at least be recognized as a Nation. I know I shouldn't, but I open my mouth to answer, my voice sharper than expected.

"The Nation of Canada." Prussia looks up, and instead of asking "Who?" (really, I get enough of that from Kumatata) stares at me, jaw slack. His eyes widen and I can feel him look at me like I've grown two heads. I pursue my lips, spin on my heel, and with an irritated "Good_bye_, Prussia," walk away.

I don't feel the need look back.

**XXX**

I'm slightly ashamed to say I don't love many things. I mean, I love my family, my country, Kumajuka, and a very special few. I've never really liked to use the world 'love' lightly; it's a very strong word, with indications and commitments behind it. Whether you live up to those duties, certain things are expected of you when you say you love someone or something. The same could be said about using the word 'hate'.

With that being said, its obvious that I like to be careful about what I say, and when I say something, I mean it. Unless, of course, I'm lying, but I don't lie to the ones I love. So if I lie to you, its safe to assume that I just don't care about you and you shouldn't take it too personally. But even when I'm lying, I won't use 'love' carelessly.

The point is, and I digress, that when I say I love something take me _very_ seriously.

Something I was sure my provinces and territories knew. Which is why I was comfortable enough to leave them alone in my house, the one I'd raised them all in, the house built for me when France first appeared in my lands. It was literally ancient but well taken care of, and there was no other place on earth I could ever really consider _home_. It was large and held my family and I easily; even when I was in the form of a child it never felt empty or unnerving. To this day, the sound of my footsteps echoing when I stroll down the halls brings a smile to face.

I was sure I'd stressed many times before that I was absolutely positive I loved this house at much as one could possibly love an inanimate object.

But maybe I wasn't quite as clear as I thought I was, because at the moment, instead of lecturing Thomas on how some people don't find tales of how their father-figure killed people 'awesome' or 'cool as fuck', or teaching Marcelle and Alberta how to make butter tarts, I am currently running for my life, my family and Hong Kong whooping and shouting as they run with me. Well, Hong Kong not so much, but he is smiling and snickering slightly, which is actually an accurate equivalent.

I'm confused as to how I got to this point.

After an unenjoyable plane ride ("Sir, are you okay?" "Yes, I'm perfectly fine." "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to call an ambulance?" "Very sure, thank you." "Sir, you do realize you're bleeding?" "Head wounds tend to do that, John.") I arrived home, expecting to be greeted warmly and with great drama ("THE PLANE DIDN'T CRASH, THE BIRD HAS ARRIVED IN THE NEST, I REPEAT, THE BIRD HAS ARRIVED IN THE NEST,"), unto which I would thank Nunavut and give him some reprieve, feed Kuma pancakes he didn't need, try to read or do paperwork for up to twenty minutes and thirty seconds at the most (My provinces are crazy, but they run by the clock), until I have to push up my sleeves and deal with some unruly dilemma ("How does a blind boy shoot an arrow filled with your underwear onto the roof?") or answer some question that reminded me too much of Alfred ("Say, Matthew, do you think fish ever get claustrophobic, being in a tiny bowl all the time?"), which I would doubtlessly do, because I love them, and its always a funny story to tell when someone's drunk.

Not to come within three yards of my lovely house to see Hong Kong speeding past me, offering a slight nod, before continuing. It's not anything strange, since he comes over often (We actually became quite close when we lived at England's) but normally he stops to have a short, blunt, conversation about something of the other. Not five seconds later, Ontario ran by, piggy-backing Manitoba, who seemed greatly amused. Stopping only to tell me I needed to run unless I wanted to find out if Nations could heal after being exploded and that they were glad I hadn't been assassinated, they also followed Hong Kong. After that, Quebec, Yukon, North, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, British Columbia, and Nunavut (who was lugging and irate looking Kuma) came out, looking just as frantic, but still very amused. Cassel, while handing me Kuma, explained that they could explain things later and we should run. Naturally, I booked it.

Which why I am where I am now.

Not really confusing as strange.

Sadly, strange is the new normal.

"Five," I heard Daniel yell. Everyone tries to run faster.

"Four," Alberta begins singing 'If I Die Young'.

"Three," Quebec trips on her skirts, and Nova Scotia falls back, telling her that he's not leaving without her.

"Two," New Brunswick stops and leans against a tree, breathing heavily. I stop.

"You okay, Vince?" He smiles weakly. Out of all my provinces, he stays inside the most. He's great with technology; everything we own has probably been tinkered with or fixed at least once. Vince isn't out of shape, but random, frantic running naturally tires him out, since he doesn't get out much.

"Yeah, I'm just a litt-"

_Boom. _

The ground shakes and we both fall, Vince on me and me on the ground. I'm dizzy and pretty sure my previous wound opened up by the sticky feeling on my head and because Vince is looking at me with a horrified expression on his face. I push Vince off and start coughing, because he's heavy and I'm breathing in a ton of smoke, and _were those explosives or smoke bombs_?

"_What the hell happened to one_?" I hear British Columbia yell. Vince helps me up and I take a look around, mortified. What have they _done_? I can't see the house, but there's smoke _everywhere_. Everyone's strewn about, either laughing or yelling indignantly. British Columbia is shouting at Manitoba, who's sitting on his stomach with a smug expression on his face.

"Why didn't you say one?" Elliot is almost red in the face, from excitement or rage, I don't know. I think can safely assume that he planned the whole situation; Elliot loves building bombs from literally anything. Daniel and Tommy are often his partners in crime; Daniel can hear the ticking of the bomb from far away and decide when it's going to explode, and Thomas is just a top-notch pyro. They're officially our explosives team. Elliot, however, is obsessed with making sure everything's safe. He's not after world domination just of yet, but he's a tad paranoid. He doesn't want to destroy the world; he just wants to know _how_.

Or maybe I'm overthinking and it's my fault for raising such fire loving children.

"Well, I was pretty sure everyone knew what came after two. I didn't know I had to spell it out for you, Point Dexter." Daniel snaps.

"Technically, three comes after two." Prince Edward Island points out. Roy is safely up a tree, having scrambled up there with his pet beaver (majestic animal, the beaver), Vinny, at four. Vinny sits on his head, making a mess of already mussed honey hair. He squints down at me and waves. Roy doesn't like the being inside, or in confined places, so he's normally pretty distant, but he's a sweet kid. I'm surprised he said anything, but not so much surprised that it's a smart remark. Roy likes to stay quiet, but doesn't have a mouth filter. Whatever comes out of his mouth is exactly what he's thinking. I'm sure there's a scientific name for it, but we just call it brain-vomiting.

"You know what I mean."

"I'm pretty sure you need to spell it out for me." Elliot snickers, and Daniel punches him in the gut. I open my mouth to tell them to stop, but Alberta beats me to it.

"Ladies, please, take your catfight to the house where we can properly place our bets." Jessie places one hand on her hip, using the other one to twirl a lock of black hair. Surprisingly, her cowboy hat is still planted firmly on her head, but her once cream sleeveless sweater is covered in dirt and her frayed jeans have a dark streak on them. Her pretty face spotted with dirt, but she takes no notice. I'm proud to say Jessie is a do-it-yourself kind of girl, and nothing can stop her when she's on a roll. Sometimes it may seem overbearing, but you learn to appreciate someone who's willing to get a little dirt on her hands during war. Sarcasm and getting up close and personal is her preferred way of communication, and out of all my children, I can honestly say spending time with her is the most interesting. She's like a witty, wilder, female version of Al, just not as annoying.

"Ten bucks on Daniel." Nova Scotia drawls. Jessie scowls.

"Hold your fucking horses, Finny. You're already a whore; no need to get yourself in debt, too." Did I mention that she and Finn are mortal enemies? These two are like cats and dogs, all the time. They alternate between outright insulting each other, to using sugar coated double meanings. Today seems like one of the former.

"Shit, Jessie, I'd tell you I care but I don't," Finn says slowly, picking himself up. Despite the dirt and smoke around us, he looks perfectly composed; there isn't a single red hair out of place and his too-long shirt seems no worse for the wear, despite the numerous cuts into it. Finn has a habit of hiding small knives up his sleeves, and therefore all his clothes get torn. Luckily, Saskatchewan loves sewing, so it's never a problem. Out of all the provinces and territories, he's the sneakiest. Its baffling how he can look so... devil-may-care doing everything. Scotland is exactly the same; their both so alike its a bit freaky. I mean, he's my kid but he looks and acts like my uncle.

"I don't expect you too. I'm just saying so that when your working your ass off - literally - in some brothel I can stop by and say "Told you so"."

"Now wait a minute," Daniel cuts in," I'd like to say that no one would be working their ass off anywhere if they bet on _me_." Elliot throws him off, into Vince. He lets out a quiet 'oof' and I steady them both. I wanted to cut in, but its better for them to get out aggressions before I rip them all a new one. Verbally, of course, but whatever they were playing with was something new, and their supposed to have _supervision_ when they set random things on fire.

"Catch, I think he's malfunctioning; the boy thinks he can beat me. You might want to tune him up or something." Vince shoots a glare at Elliot (if looks could kill, he'd have a papercut) but nonetheless checks Daniel for any head injuries.

"Wait a minute, Elliot, are you sure _you're_ alright?" Saskatchewan chimes in, getting her long blond hair untangled from a bush. She's the sweetheart of the bunch, but a tad airheaded. "Have you been spending too much time in your room? 'Cause I think you just referred to Daniel as a machine, and as inhumane he can be, I'm pretty sure Vince hasn't managed to turn any of us into robots. Yet."

"I take offense to that."

"Have you ever heard "I'd tell you I care but I don't?"? It was quoted by an incredibly evil Scottish-Canadian. Please, take it to heart." Finn gives his sister a lazy smile.

"Take notes, children. Christy obviously has the right idea of how you should worship me." He gives a slight nod in my direction. "Matt, we already put you on a pedestal, so you don't count. Unless you want to worship me, but I doubt it." Hong Kong pokes out from behind a tree, bored looking. His hair is poking out at odd places, and his clothes are slightly rumpled, but he looks just as good as Finn. Does being stoic and distant offer some type of force field?

"Can we perhaps see if anything is left of your home? I'd like to see exactly how lethal Arthur's pies are."

"_What?_" They set my house on fire and endangered our lives (if we could die) with Arthur's _cooking_? I turn in a full circle, taking my time to stare down everyone around me. Elliot shifts uncomfortably.

"Well, you see, after Marcy got off the phone with you, we started talking about how you managed to pull off all the stuff from the wars. Like, besides the Maple Murders. Being a sniper, a pilot, and dominating on the battlefield; you're pretty awesome, you know?" I cross my arms disapprovingly.

"Being talented at killing people you've never met isn't 'awesome'. It's called being a soldier, and you were all in the wars too."I say sharply. It's good to appreciate and honor what others do in the war, but most of my provinces seem to admire me _too_ much. I don't mind recognition, but no one should be proud of the blood they have on their hands. Elliot looks down, his face a light pink with what I assume is shame. He starts to mumble out half-hearted apologies, but I cut him off.

"Look, can we just check out the house? I know it's pretty sturdy, but I've had the place since forever an I'd rather not have to rebuild it. You super pyros can tell me what Arthur's cooking has to do with anything while we walk." There's a murmur of silent agreement as I take Daniel from Vince, and holding him bridal style, start to trek towards the house. We've actually come pretty far; I can't see the house but smoke still fills the air, so we can't be that far away. I shudder. Unless Arthur's cooking can really work as an advanced smoke bomb. I've heard teasing stories about how his cooking could be used as weapons of mass destruction, but never has anyone actually _tried_.

We start walking but Thomas and Elliot jog up to me and Daniel, bickering.

"No, you tell him! It was your idea to steal that limey's food!" Elliot snorts.

"Oh, please, you were begging for us to try it! You have a serious problem, and as your brother, I say you need to explain it to Matthew. Consider this your intervention. Welcome."

"I _do not_ need an intervention! You're the mad scientist; aren't you supposed to sit in a dark chair and explain your evil plan while petting a creepy-ass cat? Practice with this!" Tommy retorts. I decide to intervene.

"Stop it," I order. "I don't care who tells me, just do." Their both silent for a few moments, glancing around nervously. Kumabasa breaks the silence.

"Carry me," He demands. I look down at my bear, smiling in amusement at his state. I had been carrying him, but at the explosion, I had dropped him. He plops down on the ground, black eyes blank, but I can tell he's displeased with having to walk on his own and me leaving him for the meeting.

"Naughty bears who let children blow up houses have to walk," I tell him. Besides me, he's the oldest entity in the area. If Arthur's cooking was brought into the mix, even he should have known it was a bad idea. And he knows how to call me or stop mischievousness with just being plain stubborn. I can't count how many times disasters have been avoided by him whining for pets or food until it became unbearable.

He pouts (or does something eerily similar to it; even after centuries I'm still not quite sure of the limit of his human qualities) and swats at Ontario's feet, who was just walking past him. He repeats his order and Tommy grudgingly picks him up, grunting. "You have more fat than fluff on you, Kumajirou." I give him a quizzical look.

"Thomas, his name is Kumacura." Thomas looks like he's about to say something, but instead sighs.

"We wanted to know what makes you and Alfred so powerful in general," He starts. "We couldn't think of anything you had in common besides you getting your capitals burned, living in North America, and living with England. We ruled out the fires, 'cause that's kinda've stupid, and it couldn't be the continent because Mexico doesn't have any crazy powers. So, to pass time, we started talking about what at England's house could've given you super powers. Then Vince mentioned how back when he was a British colony Arthur's food had been practically radioactive, so we called up Kaoru."

"I told them that no one else had developed any unnatural qualities." I look to my left and see that Hong Kong had managed to sneak next to me, face set in his normal stoic expression, but his dark eyes were lit with amusement. "But I did confirm that England's food was possibly lethal." Daniel snorts.

"_Possibly_? Kaoru, we just proved that his food can be used as bombs. I think that there's a chance it may be a bit more than 'possibly lethal'."

"Elliot had some of his food locked away in a freezer, so we started-"

"I only had it because I wanted to use it for some experiments! And Marcelle wanted to see if there was a way to make still deadly, but look good." Elliot snaps, obviously embarrassed at the revelation that he had any of Arthur's food tucked away.

"Poking with it and stuff." Thomas continues, ignoring Elliot. "Elliot found some chemical shit in it and said that it might be highly flammable. And I wanted to see just how flammable."

"Okay," I say slowly. "Then why is Kaoru here? Not that I don't appreciate your presence."

"They told me about it and asked if I wanted to join, since I wasn't at the meeting. I told them no, and Elliot said that they would do it whether I came or not, and he would tell me the results." He said blankly. "I figured you may have wanted them to have some adult supervision, so I came."

"Much help that did," I hear Roy chime from behind us. I realize that everyone is listening, waiting for my reaction. Kaoru looks indignant but frowns at me.

"Yes, I didn't help much at all. I'm sorry, Matthew." He apologizes earnestly. I offer him a small smile. Even if it didn't turn out well, Kaoru always tried to help when he could. He was the person I was closest to that wasn't related to me. He could be silent and distant, but then again, so could I. We could sit in each other's company for hours, reading or thinking, not saying a single word.

I love the hustle and bustle of thirteen children, the warmth and closeness, but Kaoru understands the feeling of being overlooked and underestimated. Cold eyes and blunt words may seem unappealing to others, but when I want an honest, unbiased opinion, when I wanted someone who can hit me with the full force of the world then help me up, Kaoru is there.

He's one of those few people I 'love'.

"It's okay," I say softly. "I appreciate the effort, no matter how wasted." We both share a light chuckle, and I'm positive that tricks and illusions can't tear us apart. Someone as small as Hong Kong needs to be on guard; like the provinces, he's weak and receptive to attack. He's not nearly as powerful as complete Nations. His city is tiny and beautiful; crowded, filled to the brim with sins and stories that should be left untold, but are whispered to me anyway. Kaoru trusts me. With anyone else, he would be worried about me trying to somehow make him a colony, like England did, but with me, he laughs. His shoulders fall. Little smiles twitch at his lips.

I know I shouldn't take our friendship so seriously, because Nations aren't meant to depend on one another like I depend on him, but so far I've only let him worm into my heart. One can't hurt; two or three means I'm getting careless, but _one_ can't hurt.

We continue our small hike up the house (it was much easier to run so fast going _down_hill), the provinces and territories laughing and teasing each other behind us. Jessie and Finn are fighting again, Vince is trying to coax Roy to stop swinging from tree to tree, Quebec and Ontario are trying to out-curse each other, and Elliot is doing his best to help Christine get twigs out of her hair. The territories are smiling widely, North in the middle of Yukon and Nunavut as they swing the small boy by his hands.

Daniel is explaining to us how Arthur's scones can be used as hand grenades when I realize someone is missing.

"Where's Noah?" I realize that my last province, Newfoundland, is missing. I glance around for the sharp boy, but he's not here.

Ontario chuckles nervously. "See, that's a funny story..." I stare at him, horrified.

"You didn't leave him behind, did you?" Jessie scratches her head and adjusts her hat, drawing patterns in the dirt with her boots.

"Weeeeeeell... He said that we were being stupid and that he was perfectly safe. He wouldn't budge, so... It was kinda like every man for himself, ya know?" Before I can reply, North bursts out giggling, falling over. Yukon catches him, chuckling too. Nunavut steps forward, dark eyes glittering.

"You left me in charge, remember?" Cassel inquires, his left hand twitching. Which he only does when he finds something hilarious. When I nod dumbly, he grasps my hand, laughing. Images flash before my eyes, and I see my home burning, smoke rising into the air, wooden beams that have lasted for centuries falling-

"I wouldn't let them do that to the house." I blink and I see what he's done. What he, Reid, and Jules have done. My jaw goes slack.

"You didn't..." North beams at me. Reid is the smallest of all the provinces and territories; even though he's the second largest, he looks no older than a seven year old. His dark brown hair is cropped and his just as dark eyes sparkle, as he jumps up to wrap his arms around my waist. There's a shifting in my arms and Daniel taps my chin.

"I feel like you're about to drop me." I carefully set him down (He's already latching onto Ontario who looks pleased) and hug Reid, murmuring how proud I am. He jumps again, and leads me to Yukon, who is blushing.

"We figured this might happen at some point, so we went ahead and charmed the house a week ago..." Jules shuffles, looking awkwardly at her feet.

"But we didn't think something would happen so soon!" Cassel finishes for her. Cassel and Jules are identical twins. Jules' hair is black with a white streak in it from being scared by a moose when she was younger, and holds it back in a headband, while Cassel keeps his hair in a long ponytail, and is a bit more masculine, but besides that they are almost impossible to distinct from each other. Both are pleasant and soft-spoken, both are lean with dark tanned skin and black hair and they're always together. It's not a strange thing for them to finish each other's sentences or voice what the other is thinking; it's never bothered me since Al and I can do the same thing when we're not upset with each other.

But what's really magic is that when we reach the house, it's completely intact, maybe filled with smoke, but it's standing with _no_ fire. And Noah is standing out front, smirking smugly, holding a tome in his hands as he greets us with a blunt, "I told you so."

"You really did it!" I exclaim to the territories as the others crowd and poke Noah, asking how he's alive.

"We've been getting better," Jules says shyly. The territories can do magic; not the weird mumbo jumbo Arthur talks about when he's drunk, but real, honest _magic_. I have a little bit of the Sight, but I can't do any of the stuff they can. Charms and curses (though they rarely do any black magic), visions, moving objects without touching them, talking to animals, they can do all of it. Nunavut is the most talented, but when they attempt stuff alone it's clumsy and can go wrong. However, whenever they do it_ together_...

Well, it saves my house and surrounding foliage from being burnt to the ground.

Reid shrieks and jumps me, with a loud battle cry of "GROUP HUG!", and there's a small riot as everybody drops what they're doing (Even Kaoru, who was throwing fire crackers at birds) to rush to us, pushing, laughing, as we wrap our arms around one another.

I find myself laughing so hard tear are running down my face as Marcelle squeezes my waist and Daniel is clinging to my arm and North is sitting on my shoulders, petting Vinny, the teleporting beaver, who is somehow on my head. I can hear Finn and Jessie swearing violently at each other, Christy and Thomas hugging them so tightly they can't swing at each other.

I collapse when Kumajirou (_That's_ his name!) lets out a huffy "Stupid humans," and we all fall down, lying on the front lawn with the unique smell of blown up pies, sweat, dirt, and love, which doesn't really have a smell, but I can feel it.

I push the incident with Prussia to the back of my mind and focus on what I feel.

These strange people that I love, and even stranger, love me back

**XXX**

**Eh... Well, it went better than I suspected, so yeah. I know the genre says "Drama" but the provinces and territories are there for (what I hope is) comedic relief. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next one will be in Gilbert's perspective, and hopefully soon!**

**If you see any mistakes, please feel free to correct me. **

**Provinces and Territories (because someone asked nicely): **

**Ontario: Thomas or Tommy  
Quebec: Marcelle or Marcy  
Nova Scotia: Finn  
New Brunswick: Vincet or Vince  
Manitoba: Daniel  
British Columbia: Elliot  
Prince Edward Island: Roy (The one with the beaver)  
Saskatchewan: Christine or Christy  
Alberta: Jessie  
Newfoundland: Noah  
North: Reid  
Yukon: Jules  
Nunavut: Cassel  
**

**Oh, and can anyone tell me who their favorite province or territory is? I know we haven't gone too deep with the personalities, but I would really like your (yes you, dear reader) opinion!**


	3. Operation Birdie

**Shall I clear something up about the territories? Their magic, it's the same as England's, just that Iggy likes to exaggerate and make it seem stupid. What Nunavut, Yukon, and North do is a little more earnest and not done... drunkingly. I wasn't going for the whole 'Indian magic' image if that's what anyone was thinking. I apologize if I offended anyone.**

**Alrighty, well I'm not so happy with this chapter. It's a bit harder for me to write Gilbert. **

**XXX**

"Gilbert, it's time to go." Ludwig crosses his arms again, looking decidedly uncomfortable. I ignore it. He could've left ages ago. I can damn well make my way around my own city, and he knows it. I don't need a baby-sitter.

We were outside and I was sitting on the concrete sidewalk, waiting to see if Matthew would come back. He probably won't, but I'm an optimist.

"No..."

"Gilbert, it's been thirty minutes." Apparently, my dear Bruder is a pessimist. I scowl and mimic his arm movements.

"But..." _No_, I am _not_ fucking pouting. Pouting is for pussies.

"Bruder, I'm telling you, whoever it is, he's not coming back. We _need_ to go back." His voice remains soft, but Ludwig's eyes are firm. I bristle slightly._ I'm_ the older brother. He can go fuck Feli up a corner if he thinks he make me do _anything_.

"Matthew!" I snap. "Godammit, West, the kid's fucking name is Matthew. You talked to him before you kicked Jones out. Is it really all that hard to remember? The little fucker carries around a polar bear for Christ's sakes!" I growl out. Maybe I hadn't known Matthew's country name, but I'm 234% positive that I've always known his human name, as awkward as that is. Human names are private; close friends and family use them. So it's weird that I know his human name, right? A little strange, that's all, right?

Right?

West looks scandalized by me using Matthew's human name so easily. "Bruder, I've never heard of a 'Matthew'. Are you sure it's who you think it is?" There's an edge of concern in his voice and my eyes snap up to meet his.

"Don't use that _ficken_ tone with me, West. I am not crazy,_ verdammit_!" I hiss because I know what he's thinking. He's thinking that I'm having an 'episode'. And even though I know that he's just being a good brother, an _awesome_ brother, I could even say, there is no way I'm letting him think I'm going off the deep end. He just started letting me come back to meetings five years ago, and _fuck_ if anyone think's I'm going to basically spend another decade in _solitary_ just because he doubts my sanity. Who the hell around here was even completely sane? Most of the Nations are already half ballistic, so what harm is there in me waiting for someone who won't show up in this exact parking lot until we have another meeting in Germany again? I'm not mental.

And fuck me sideways if I haven't made it _crystal fucking clear_ that I do not have 'episodes' anymore.

West pinches his nose and looks up to the sky like they even _do_ shit up there. He sounds strained when he speaks. "Gilbert, please tell me, do you know of 'Matthew's' country name?"

I hesitate.

When West looks at me, there's a hint of desperation in his eyes and I realize he _really_ thinks I'm hallucinating. "_Please_, what is his Nation name?"

"_Kanada_..." West stiffens (if that's even possible, he has the posture of a picket fence) and his eyes narrow.

"_Kanada_?"

"_Kanada_." West swears, looks at the sky, me, the sky again, me again, then swears once more. Canada. Yes, mutherfucking Canada, the killing machine that (from what I've read) costs the Axis _both _wars. I can't remember jack from either wars (little things every once in awhile, nothing that helps), but from what I've heard, out of all the Allies, Canada hated our guts and gleefully blew out Bruder and I's brains _multiple_ times. Canada, who I'm positive Bruder has nightmares about. Canada, who was a living _menace_ on the battlefield. Canada who I chased, slammed into a door, offered a chick Band-Aid to (not just anyone get's Gilibird Band-Aids; this is an _honor_), tried to talk too, got turned down (not awesome), and was coldly left in the dust as he walked away. Canada, who has an adorable stutter, apologizes for the dumbest crap, and had me acting like a third grader getting hard for the music teacher.

I sure feel like a piece of shit.

"Bruder," West starts,"you know he hates us."

"Oh really?" I snap. "Because I'm pretty damn sure that when you were talking to him earlier he didn't look like he was planning our murders. Hell, he saved Berlin from highway anarchy!" Ludwig looks stricken, but I don't stop. "But you didn't mind talking to him, did you? Didn't pull out your glock or snap his neck when he got within two feet you, did ya?"

"I didn't-"

"That's right," I snarl, "you didn't _recognize_ him. But I'm damn sure he recognized us, so where's the invasion? The cavalry? West, I don't give two sweet shits about Canada, I just got jilted by _Matthew_ and that's who I'm sitting on the pavement like a total fucking dumbass for." Before he can reply, I'm up on my feet and whipping out my phone. I press one of the numbers on speed-dial.

"Onhonhon~ Gilbert, do you miss me already?" Francis's tone is light and humorous and I find myself unconsciously relaxing when I hear the voice of my close friend. I didn't even realize I was so tense; fuck, did talking to West really get me all that upset?

I cut him off from whatever random mumbo jumbo he's rambling about; he can go on for hours, but right now, I have a purpose:"Listen, French Fry, I need to get piss drunk. Like, awesome-I'm-feeling-the-hangover-next-month piss drunk."

A silence and I worry that he might decline. But who the hell would back out of hanging out with the awesome me? _Matthew_, a little voice in my mind whispers, but I tell the voice to go fuck itself. Don't need voices. Voices are bad.

"Do you want me to call Tonio?" Francis sounds amused and I grin and nod even though he can't see me.

"Fuck yeah."

We're back in business, baby.

**XXX**

_All I can see is white._

_Everywhere I look, I see white. Above me, it falls gently, and I shiver from it's touch. I know it's called something when white falls from the sky, but I'm too exhausted to think much of it. To the right, to the left, it covers the land, stretching endlessly. It's like we're in a sea of some kind. Below me is white; it moves and it grunts, and I can feel muscles and bones contract under me, but its iswhite all the same. I don't even think of looking behind me. I can barely keep my eyes open as it is._

_In front of me, is a figure. The figure is white too, but that's because the white covers it, not because the figure itself is white. I know because when the figure took me from Russia it was tan and blond, not white._

_The figure is tall._

_It walks ahead of me, it's stride long and powerful, and I feel that it could never be weak in the white, not like me. I feel like I could break. My body screams from the movement, from the cold and I was screaming, but the figure turned to loom at me, and even though we're at least a couple yards apart, I could tell the figure was disapproving. So I stopped._

_I want to reach out, to touch the figure and see if it is an illusion, a figment of my mind. Over the years, I've created many faulty saviors, but this one is the most distant, the darkest. The figure doesn't speak to me and I just want to know if its real._

_I need it to be real._

_The sky is dark as the flurries of white fall down, I shift on the white carrying me. The white below me is broad and alive so I know it's real. It's warm and I press my face into it's white fur, nuzzling it. I'm thankful and this is all I can do._

_I think the white below me gets my message because it starts to go faster, catching up to the figure. I try to wrap my arms around the white because I'm about to fall, but my limbs are frozen in place._

_I hit the ground with a dull 'thud' that I cannot feel._

_The figure whips around and runs to me, reaching me in seconds. It bends down over me and I want to cry in happiness. The figure is a boy. A boy with white skin, an attractive, feminine, but strong face, and eyes that are almost like Russia's, but beautiful. They are bright and determined and are focused only on me as he mouths words I don't hear. His hair is wavy and long, a wheat color that frames his face. There is a single wayward curl. The white falls on him, clinging to his thick, honey lashes, and his hair like a halo. He shines compared to the gray above us, his pale skin and handsome features glowing. I attempt to raise my hand and touch him, but I can't, so instead I let my face crumble as I begin to cry._

_I know this is all real because there is no way my warped mind can create an angel like this._

_His hands cup my face and wipe away a tear. He looks slightly upset so I try to stop but I can't. They keep falling down, down, like the white, and maybe they'll be endless too. I lean into his hands. They are warm on the outside but I can feel coldness rush under his skin like blood._

_He moves to stand up but I whimper softly, pressing my face further into his hand. His mouth moves again, but I don't understand. I struggle to hear my angel's voice._

_"...wat me...you?" I blink my eyes in confusion. He huffs and I start to feel bad. I want to hear him, but all that comes out are fuzzy fragments. He tries once more, louder, but I cringe. There is no sound out in the white, and I like it that way. Loud noises aren't awesome at all._

_We're both silent for what seems like an eternity. But I've lived several eternities, so is it really that long at all?_

_Finally, he leans down, his hot breath brushing my ear, and I freeze. I can feel warmth in my cheeks, and I think vaguely that I must be red. His lips move, and words flow out, smooth and rich, his voice soft but strong and I find I can hear him perfectly._

_"Do you want me to carry you?" It takes me moments to recognize what he says, and when I do, I nod furiously, frantic. The white was nice, but I don't want to be away from the angel. Not now that I've been so close to someone so..._

_Perfect? Glorious? Beautiful? All those words seem to mundane, too normal for my angel. Parts of him are perfect, like the arms that are picking me up, lean and strong. I rest my head against his chest and I think that the around of his heartbeat is beautiful, a melody that only I can hear. This is _my_ angel, so it's natural that only I can hear it, right?_

_My eyes grow heavy, and though my body still hurts, I feel content, listening to the song on his chest. Just as I am about to fall into darkness, my angel shakes me, jolting me awake._

_He's looking down on me and I can feel disappointment radiating from him. His eyes are steely and when he opens his mouth, the words are still soft, if not a little gruff._

_"Don't sleep unless you want to die." I open my mouth and then close it again, staring up at him, but he is already looking ahead, right in front of us. "I don't know if you can understand me, since you seem pretty out of it, but right now it's somewhere below zero. In Russia's place, you were part of him, so I'm guessing that's why you aren't dead, but out here, if you fall asleep, you're done for," He warns. "You can go to sleep if you want to, but you probably won't wake up. I'm not stopping you." I don't know why, but this makes me frown. I lay my head against his chest and close my eyes. I want to stay awake, but does the he even care? And though I've made it this far, is it even worth it if an angel doesn't want to live?_

_I've almost made up my mind when he speaks again._

_"But," he adds, "I will be extremely upset if you die and all of this is wasted because I'm missing Ontario's snow boarding tournament. And British Columbia is horrible at taking pictures, so if I get to Germany with a dead body not only will your brother be mad at me, but I'll also have to edit the photos, because Ontario will demand it." I look up at him, shocked. Ludwig is waiting for me? We're going to Germany?_

_"...Br...uder?" His eyes widen and there's something akin to triumph in his expression._

_"Yeah, your brother. He's going to meet us at the border." His eyes darken and his face is shadowed. "Must be nice to have a brother who cares so much." I then decide even if this angel tells me to go to Hell, I will live. I will live for the brother who's waiting for me. I will live and find out everything about him, down to who Ontario is, and if he has a brother who betrayed him._

_He keeps talking animatedly, nothing of real importance, but I drink in it and cling to his every word, desperate to know anything. He talks about people I've never met, things I've never heard of, and uses phrases that don't seem to have any meaning. I can feel my head clear now that I have a purpose; information._

_By the time I see my brother, I don't even know his name._

_Ludwig stares at me, shock and horror etched onto his face. I haven't seen a mirror in at least twenty years, so I don't know what I look like, but Ludwig is crying. Before I can register what's happening, I'm in his arms, and he's sobbing, holding me like broken glass._

_I'm crying too._

_It's only I turn to look back at my angel, my savior, that I realize he's gone. I know nothing about him, his name, age, country, or if he's even a Nation. Ludwig is asking me questions I thought I could answer, but_ he's_ gone._

_I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out._

**XXX**

"Do you think he's okay, _mi amigo_?"

"_Non_, I'm not sure. He's not usually this drunk yet." I groan. Fuck, only five beers and I'm reminiscing about crap that happened years ago. Normally I'm feeling sorry for myself and thinking about _mein engel_ at twelve.

After calling Francis, we came to our favorite bar to get wasted and have an overall good time. Unfortunately, instead of having sex or proving my awesomeness through a drinking contest (nothing magnifies one's awesome like beer!) I am sitting here like a pansy ass shit because I didn't get to talk to Matthew. Well, I did, but he didn't seem to remember me. And I busted his head open. And I'd rather get smashed with him than these two fucktards.

I possibly might not be the best friend ever.

"Tonio, did you hear that? _Mon cher_ Gilbert is alive!" I pull my head out of my arms and glare at the two cheering assholes. I'm actually thinking something through, like how to convince Matthew I'm not a total fuck-up, and my supposed best friends insist waking the dead with their noise.

"Shut up," I snap. I hold my head in my hands and moan. Why the hell did I feel like I was getting a hangover when I wasn't even done drinking?!

I feel a hand rubbing soothing circles in my back. "Gilbert, is something wrong?" I snort.

"No Francis, I just want to get smashed because I noticed the sky was blue. I could have sworn it was orange, and that just reeeeeaaally bummed me out." The hand on my back quickly moves to smack my head as Francis orders another glass of wine- Frenchie can't handle hard liquor like I can. I hear an irritable sigh and I raise my head to take another swig of my beer. I smack my lips loudly and lean close to Francis and Antonio.

"It's about your kid, Francis." Antonio just stares at Francis with a baffled look on his face, while Francis gapes at me in growing horror.

"You have a _bambino_, Francis?" Toni questions, utterly confused. There is something like betrayal in the Spaniard's eyes, so I quickly backtrack. Toni doesn't demand a lot of things, but trust is one, and since he probably won't remember Matthew, all hell could break if thinks Frenchie was holding back such important information.

"Yeah," I say,"Y'know, you've met the brat a couple times, Toni. We all have." Which is a total lie, on my part. I remember hearing France going on and on about his new colony, New France. I never met Matthew when he was a kid, but I know for a fact that Francis and Antonio both took their respective 'children' on playdates with each other. They were always whining about me taking Ludwig to meet Lovino and Matthew, but I never did, for fear that my baby brother would become as hot-headed and rude as Romano, or God forbid, a savage like what Francis described his little _Mathieu_ as. I admit, I use to be stuck on the idea that people could be guilty by association, or influenced heavily by those around him. Maybe I judged, maybe I was a little old-fashioned, but I've grown out of that.

Besides, it wouldn't matter now, even if I haven't.

Francis laughs nervously, his eyes dancing around the room, obviously uncomfortable with the subject. "_Oui_, Toni you have. Remember the 1500s? Seychelles is a _belle fille_. Michelle met Romano once; don't you recall how cute he was, acting like a gentleman, but snapping at you whenever she turned her back?" Antonio brightens considerably at this. Oh, _that sneaky bastard_ - mentioning a 'cute' memory of Lovino could bring Toni out of any bad mood.

"_Si_, _si_!" Toni exclaims, much too loud. I shush him just as loudly, but the bartender only offers an irritated glance, use to our antics. He lowers his voice, but continues excitedly. "I remember, she was cute! Lovi was so sweet the entire day, and didn't say anything mean once, and even gave her a tomato! It was _so_ precious," Antonio swoons, then downs a shot of tequila. Surprisingly, he almost never gets drunk; somehow Toni takes alcohol like a bull. That, and he's the designated driver during most of our outings.

I tap my finger against the bar impatiently; Yeah, I know Francis has Seychelles too, but from the way he was shifting when he answered, Frenchie knows good and well who I was talking about. "Francis?"

"_Oui_?" He answers, seemingly at ease. He holds the wine glass between fingers, deftly swirling the crimson liquid enticingly as he eyes two giggling girls. I snort internally. Like I'd accept some half-ass answer about his _daughter_. Did he forget who asked the question in the first place?

"Michelle sounds all fine and dandy, but I was referring to _Canada_. Ya know, the _boy_? The one who you talked to this afternoon at the meeting?" I say lowly. I don't want another scene with Toni feeling like we're leaving him out. Francis freezes, then slowly turns his head to me, clenching the glass tightly.

"Toni," Francis coaxes slowly,"why don't you go entertain our lady friends over there? The red-head is looking at you, and I know you like the feisty ones." Without a word, Toni slides to his feet, sweeping over to the girls. I can hear the smooth tone of his voice from her; I wonder how Romano would react if he knew that Antonio is just as much a sweet-talker as Francis.

Francis sighs heavily. "Why the sudden interest?" He inquires coldly. I shrug lightly.

"Had a lil' chat with him after the meeting. Curious." The blonde chuckles darkly, suddenly so much more sober than seconds before.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Gilbert. And I hardly believe _Mathieu_ willingly had a 'chat' with _you_." There's an underlining of contempt in Francis's voice and I bristle, but otherwise ignore it. I want to talk to him, not strangle him, and that requires keeping my cool.

"I kinda've had to chase him down," I admit. Francis snickers, not unkindly. His shoulders fall a little and he nods.

"_Mathieu_ can be like that, but that doesn't explain the interest. Plenty of people run away from you."

I don't answer.

Francis lets out a heavy breath and mutters under his breath, massaging his forehead, as if _I'm_ the one giving him a headache. there's a sort of tiredness in figure; his eyes are downcast, his shoulders slump, and he's frowning grimly, like instead of me asking a question, I'd forsaken him.

"Can we not talk about him?" Sharp blue eyes plead with me, but I feel a warm rush of anger, not pity. What excuse did he have to avoid a harmless conversation? Matthew isn't dead, and I wouldn't believe him if Francis told me there was some _oh-so-tragic_ backstory preventing him from putting some light on the situation.

"Listen," I snap angrily,"you had no problem talking to him earlier, I saw you guys harass him for a good ten minutes. So why the hell can't you talk _about_ him? It's not like I'm asking for some deep personal information. You're acting like you're hiding something, Francis, and I thought you knew we don't do that shit." I curse myself when I realize I sound sincerely upset; it's not that he won't talk about Matthew that bothers me, but the fact that he's withholding information, hiding something. I demand loyalty and honesty the same way Antonio does.

"Gilbert, I will not take this from you." His voice shakes with barely concealed fury, as if he knows what I'm thinking, that he's betrayed me somehow.

"Then don't," I answer calmly. "Get up and walk away." Francis looks shocked; I am too. I wasn't calm. I'm not calm. Never have been, never will be. Everything I do is lined with chaos, sometimes just a little bit, sometimes to the brim. But my words were smooth and steady, like running river water. And I feel that, too. I can feel it run over me, soak me from the inside, quench my cursed thirst for disorder.

I think - no,_ hope_ - that it has nothing to do with me imagining how incredibly furious Matthew might be if I beat his father shitless.

"I..." For once, we are both speechless. Francis is tense, but I'm relaxed. I order another beer and raise my brow at the Frenchman.

_Leave or spill_, the gesture says.

"We don't have the best relationship." His voice is shaky and slightly breathless, like what he's saying is a challenge. "We don't seem like it, do we?" He laughs, dry and humorless. "_Mathieu_ just always keeps to himself, and no one notices him. And I'm glad for that. I'm glad no one can see how much I utterly fucked up. Nobody, not even our close friends, ever question our quirky little family." Francis's words are laced with bitterness, something rare for my friend. And it's true. Antonio and I never really ask him what's happening with his family. America, England, France, and Canada. The perfect family. Sure, they argue, but every healthy relationship has it's hiccups. We just _assume_...

Francis doesn't give me a chance to answer, words rushing, spilling out, and I realize that maybe these are things he's always wanted to say. "_Mathieu_ hates us. _Angleterre_ and I, that is. Alfred is the only one that can actually make _Mathieu_ care, now, when it comes to us. He looks at Alfred like he's a nuisance, but you can tell that they love each other. And that's great except for the fact that he's withdrawing from us, Gilbert. He _hates_ us, you don't see the way he looks at me, do you? _Disgust_, when he thinks I don't notice, there's disgust written all over his face. And when we talk, like today, he gets so defensive, and covers it up so well, just flashes a little smile, and I can't do anything, Arthur can't do anything, we just nod like the horrible parents we are.

"I've been a horrible father, Gilbert, but _Mathieu_, I always thought _Mathieu_ would love me. I gave him to _Angleterre_ and I watched Arthur carry my son away, and what did I do, Gilbert? What did I do? _Nothing_. I did nothing, just turned away, didn't tell_ Mathieu_ I loved him or that I'd miss him, just handed him over like a rag doll. But he cried for me, and_ Angleterre_ would tell me what a little beast he was, how he wouldn't eat, how he'd sneak away, spend all his time with Allistar, or just disappear. That he did all those things for me; was that foolish to think? And when I went to Quebec, told her people how they were welcome with me, I thought I was saving Mathieu some trouble, since they seemed rowdy. But no, he comes to me, tells me how the people were rioting, how it was killing him, and he told me things, Gilbert, he said things I wouldn't repeat, but _Mon Dieu_, the things he said." I begin to shift uncomfortably. These aren't the things I want to know about; I feel like I'm intruding on something much more personal than normal. Some things are better left unsaid; Toni's time as a pirate, my time with Russia, and now, Francis as a father.

Francis looks up at me and there's something final in his voice, a drawing conclusion. "_Angleterre_ took advantage of him during the Wars, Gilbert. Arthur took nearly everything from _Mathieu_, and though I blame Arthur just as much as I know _Mathieu_ does, I could have stopped it. I could have told_ Mathieu_ that he didn't need to fight for me, or told _Angleterre_ that he was sucking Canada dry, that he was wrong, but I was so hurt I didn't care. And that's the worst thing you can do to _Mathieu_; not care. Now he doesn't care for me, and there isn't a damn thing I can do." Hollow acceptance. That's the only thing I could use to describe Francis's tone. I reach out and hug him, manliness be damned, because my best friend is fucked.

There. I said it. I agree with Francis. He's fucked up with Matthew.

"What does he like?" It's all I can come up with. Find a common link, and grasp it. Cast out the fishing line and hope for the best.

I explain my logic to Francis, and he nods, his eyes a little brighter. But then they darken just as soon as they light up, like a candle quickly snuffed out. Francis moans. "Gilbert, I appreciate the effort and for listening to me in such an unsightly state, but what he holds dearest are his children. The provinces and territories." I quirk a brow.

"You don't like them?"

Francis is silent for a very long time.

He answers me right when I finish my ninth beer(heart-to-heart's are amazing at keeping one sober). "No," He answers truthfully, "I love them like they were my own."

"Then what's the hold up, Rodeo?" He spares me a humorous glance before taking a long sip of his wine. His face flashes between many emotions, eyes flickering. I watch as he seems to struggle for words.

"They are... _Mathieu's_ children are brilliant." Francis finally states, looking pleased with his choice of words. "There are ten provinces and 3 territories; all of them are exceptional, even by Nation standards." I whistle softly. Francis gave out physical compliments like nobody's business, but any other types of praise are rare for him. I mean, in context, it took a couple of decades for him to actually admit that England _might_ have a better navy than him.

The flamboyant blond nods, staring into his wine glass. "But there's something, ah, per say, wrong with them. Different." At my confused look, he continues. "You know of the states?" I snort. Who didn't? I don't think that there's an immortal being in this world that's lucky enough to have never been harassed by Alfred's devil-spawn. The little shits practically travel in packs; whenever there's a meeting in America, at least a dozen of them are jumping around, wreaking havoc.

"How would you describe them?" It doesn't take me long to come up with an answer.

"Rude, selfish, loud, irritating, horrible hosts, immature, demonic, childish, _too happy_, dumb, unbearable, catatonic -"

"You can stop now," Francis cuts in, a little miffed. I mutter a quick apology when I realize that even though they're terrible, rabid migdets, the states are still his grandchildren, sorta.

"Since you've made an obvious point of what you think of them, it's safe to say that _Mathieu's_ children are completely different."

"_What_?"

"_Oui_, it's true," Francis replies, the smug bastard. His tone soon turns solemn. "The provinces and territories look like us, Gilbert. They almost all, except for one, seem older than twelve." I frowned. It was well-known that for all the chaos they created, the states were all like children, the oldest barely looking thirteen. "They understand politics, fight in wars, and help _Mathieu_ run their respective areas. They are different, Gilbert. Much too mature, all of them dark and a bit deadly. I for one," His voice goes sour," am not permitted to enter the country unless I state my business and date of arrival. And there are orders to shoot on sight if I go anywhere the Quebec border, or if I'm seen in any of her airport's._ Mathieu_ thinks I'd take everything away from him if I could, so it's only natural that I haven't entered his house in nearly a century and a half. I don't know if he trains them, or gives them certain restrictions and schedules. But whatever he's done, _Mathieu's_ done it _too_ well.

"All thirteen of them love _Mathieu_ and cherish good will - I'm not sure if they're as cruel as a true Nation - but you can't do anything to them. They'll see right through you if you try to pull the wool over their eyes, or _Dieu défendre_, try to take advantage of them. Young as they are, none of them are fools." Francis looks up at me, his determined with an edge.

"The point I have is, Gilbert, is that if I even tried to get to _Mathieu_ through any of his children, they'd realize it on the spot. _Mathieu_ raised them too well, unfortunately."

"What you're saying is that we'd need a different approach." He nodded.

"Mmhm. _Mathieu_ is like a canary, Gil. He'll sing a pretty tune, let you feed him, but he's flighty and paranoid. Step too close and he's gone, maybe forever. But stay where you are for too long, and he'll be used to you there, won't accept anything different, and though he may come back, you won't make any progress. He's a creäture of habit, so what we need to is to shake him a bit, but not overstep his boundaries." I give him a stare of disbelief.

"You've thought about this." It's not a question. Francis looks down, embarrassed. I can tell it's killing him to ask for help like this; the Country of _L'amour_, having troubles getting his own son to love him. But I'm pleased. Even if I kinda've pushed it out of him, Francis told me things I'm sure he hasn't told anyone else. I mean, we're going to have to tell Toni of course, but this show-and-tell is all mine for now.

We spend the next half hour talking about how we're going to do this; Francis says it's obvious I have a small crush ("FUCK YOU, PRUSSIA THE AWESOME DOES NOT HAVE _CRUSHES OF ALL THINGS_!" "Shut up you _imbécile_, I could see how hopeless you are from the start,"), and that if I wanted to avoid being assaulted by America, his kids, and a few other countries that remember Canada, I'd best work with him.

Perking up, Francis suddenly whips out his phone, pressing the first number on speed dial. I raise a brow; who the _hell_ was he calling?

"_What the bloody fuck do you want, you rabid, disease, ridden frog_?" I freeze when I hear the chilling tone. He did not...

I gawk at him in horror.

He smirks.

"Why?" I whisper, baffled. I didn't think he heard me, but Francis pulls away momentarily to answer me.

"Because even the _Britannique_ deserve repentance." While Francis coos at an irritated Arthur, I give a mini fist-pump into the air.

"Operation Birdie has just begun!"

**XXX**

**Eh... How was it? If you look closely, you can see the beginnings of a plot, lurking somewhere...**

**And I'd really appreciate your opinion! How was the scene where Gilbert first meets Matthew? Are Gilbert and Francis OCC? Was Francis too dramatic? The genre is drama, so I went for it, (FOR THE PLOT) but I'm afraid it might be overdone.**

**Only can prevent wild-fires. Or give me a nice review so I can see how I'm doing. And I apologize for the late update. Writing Gilbert was a bit hard for me, and most of the chapter was pre-written, so when I tried to finish and found I had lost my mojo...**

**Well, it was lost.**


End file.
